


And I'm Stuck in Folsom Prison...

by Eligh



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Codependency, Either implied or pre-relationship, First Meetings, Juvenile Detention, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Superpowers, poor len, protective!Mick, they're both teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 10:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6281470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right, so: here’s the thing. Mick’s not stalking the new kid, and if anyone says he is, then he’s going to be forced to take offense. </p>
<p>or</p>
<p>There's nothing wrong with making an ally in juvie, especially when your superpowers compliment each others' so very well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'm Stuck in Folsom Prison...

Right, so: here’s the thing. Mick’s not stalking the new kid, and if anyone says he is, then he’s going to be forced to take offense.

It’s just that he’s so fukkin—just so _dumb_ , that Mick almost can’t help himself. Shit, when the dumbass little child had punched Biggs in the face after that sex-offender-in-training had made a comment about his mouth, Mick—watching today’s goings-on from the other side of the dirt patch the guards claimed was a soccer field—actually had stood up, bristling. He legitimately felt the heat build like sparks in his palms, and had grunted in surprise, quickly clicking his fingers to bleed off the excess energy before his cuffs could register unauthorized power use. After a tense moment where he made sure he wasn’t about to drop like a bag of flour, he sat back down with a small noise of discontent.

Waylon, one of the few supers incarcerated here that never shied away from Mick, raised one scaly green brow and briefly bared his sharp teeth in what was probably supposed to be a smile. “Feeling protective?” he asked. Hissed. Mick fukkin hated Waylon, the creepy alligator-looking shit.

Across the yard, the new kid’s fists spontaneously covered themselves in a thick coating of ice. He got another five punches in before the guards hit him with 50,000 volts of excessive tazing and he fell to the ground, twitching. Biggs, also on the ground, was likewise twitching, though less in a forced electric current way and more in the possible brain-damaged sense.

“Hm,” Mick said, and watched as the guards pulled on thick gloves before dragging the new kid off to SHU. It was the first time he’d seen him manifest anything stronger than a glower and narrowed stare. Not that he’d been watching. “Interesting.”

It also meant that the kid would be fitted with his own set of suppressant cuffs before the hour was up, which was a shame, really. The ice had been—Mick smiled at his own pun—cool.

~

Thinking back, it was probably the heat lamps that caught his attention in the first place, because it wasn’t fukkin _fair_ that the new kid got about the strength of eighty suns beamed directly into his cell. Mick had paused just once in passing, soaking in what few shreds of ambient heat he could before he was rewarded with a jab of a baton to the back for his dallying. “’m goin’” he’d growled, and spared a glance in at the lucky shit who got all that fire to himself.

He’d been greeted by the most miserable face he’d ever seen in this dump, and he’d seen more than a few miserable faces in his time. Skinny little thing, too. If he hadn’t been powered somehow, well. He wouldn’t last a day.

~

“Leave me alone,” the kid had said in class when Rathaway’d sidled up to whisper poison in his ear. “Fuck off,” he’d said when Mardon sat down near him in the cafeteria. “I don’t need your help,” he’d snapped, earning an arch look from Harkness.

“Not making many friends,” Waylon’d observed later, watching Mick watch the kid. His tail twitched, probably in glee at Mick’s unwanted fascination. “Aren’t you scared all that ice will put you out?” He flicked out his pointed tongue, snake-like, and made a vulgar noise.

Mick didn’t bother answering.

~

Two weeks after the incident that left Biggs more suited for Arkham than Jump City Juvie, the new kid—who by now Mick had learned was named Snart, poor thing—appeared back in gen pop. Mick actually spotted him in the cafeteria, shoveling runny green beans into his mouth like he wasn’t entirely convinced that there’d be a next meal. There was a subtle bubble of space around the kid, something that didn’t happen too often in a prison as packed as this one.

Or, excuse him. _Juvenile detention_. The powers-that-be shipped you out to real prison when you turned eighteen, but for now they playacted like there was redemption in any of them, like they were a bunch of normals who sold pot and picked pockets.

Fukkin joke is what it was.

Mick stood up, gathered up his tray, and pointedly sat down again across from Snart, who looked up, a flicker of surprise registering before he schooled himself back into something entirely unwelcoming. “Go away,” he said.

“You make ice,” Mick countered instead of fucking off like the kid clearly wanted him to. Snart narrowed his eyes, radiating the sort of menace that almost made Mick want to crack a smile. He didn’t, though, instead choosing to focus down on his hands and debating if the inevitable suppressant shot would be advisable. And since he’d somehow in the course of things come to the conclusion that he wanted this kid as an ally— _not_ a friend, Mick didn’t do friends—he decided that there were worse things worth a wristful of sedatives. “I specialize in something warmer,” he said, and Snart’s eyes widened slightly in interest when Mick flashed a small ball of fire in the center of his cupped palm.

The cuffs kicked into gear and did their job, pricked his skin; Mick’s fire immediately went out and everything slid a little hazy. Mick rocked his head back and breathed out hard, and when he looked back up, Snart was watching him, assessing.

“Why on earth would you do that?” he asked softly as Mick blinked himself back into the reality of the cafeteria. The dull roar of the boys around them receded into the background—probably aided by the drugs, honestly—and Snart’s face was abruptly Mick’s only focus against the searing pain that started creeping up his arm from his wrist. “That shot’s not much fun,” Snart said.  He spoke like a person well acquainted with the suppressants, which, given that he’d spent the last two weeks in SHU, he probably was.

“I just—” Mick started to say, but then realized that he hadn’t really made a plan before he’d walked himself over here. He cleared his throat, muzzy. “I just wanted to… say hi, I guess.”

Snart stared at him for a long moment before slightly shaking his head and looking back down at his tray. If Mick was seeing things right, he almost looked amused. “Okay then. Sure, hi.”

Mick smirked a little, pleased. And though it wasn’t like he needed friends in prison—only idiots made friends here—it might be nice to talk to someone.

~

Snart steadfastly refused to speak to anyone besides Mick. Didn’t sit with anyone, didn’t make eye contact, didn’t breathe in the direction of—and, granted, he was quiet and contemplative and studiously avoided physical contact with Mick, too, but. But he sat with him without fuss. He even smiled occasionally in Mick’s direction.

Mick wasn’t smug about it at all.

~

“What’s the cutoff?” Snart asked one day. They were sitting on a set of crumbling bleachers at the far end of the dirt patch, and while Mick had his face tilted up to catch any ambient heat he could from the sun, Snart seemed unaffected by the winter air—and probably was, the lucky fucker.

“What?” Mick asked, only half listening, and Snart huffed at him, irritated. Snart was always irritated.

“The cutoff for the cuffs,” Snart elaborated, and when Mick opened his eyes and focused on him, Snart wasn’t looking his direction. Instead he was contemplatively watching a group of boys kick around a half-deflated soccer ball, and for a moment Mick had a panicked thought that maybe Snart would rather be out there on the field, rather than here with him on the bleachers, but—no. That wasn’t longing on Snart’s face. It was something far more homicidal.

Mick was well acquainted with looks like that.

“Why,” Mick rumbled, keeping his words to a minimum. He’d had an episode earlier in the week, let the heat build up in his throat in favor of letting it out at the warden, and was a little tender in his chest as a result.

Snart finally turned his attention away from the soccer-playing boys and towards Mick. “Curious, I guess,” he answered, which wasn’t an answer at all.

“They givin’ you problems?” Mick guessed, his fingers twitching in the direction of the other boys, and Snart fidgeted. Mick fought down the urge to raze the field just to get that look off Snart’s face.

“No.” Snart’s eyes cut away and then came back, settling and icy blue. “Maybe a little.”

Snart was, Mick had learned, fourteen—almost fifteen—and this wasn’t his first time in juvie. It was a wonder, honestly, that they hadn’t run into each other before, but it seemed that their sentences had never quite overlapped previously. Unlike Mick, Snart still had a family, of sorts—he lived at home with his father and his father’s girlfriend. There was a sister; a baby, who Snart worried about endlessly. It was Snart’s father—an unpowered asshole, by all accounts—who’d fucked up the b&e that had shackled Snart with his current eighteen months and possibility of parole.

This was also the first time anyone had ever paid any attention to Snart on the inside. He’d been too young before, but even Mick could see it, too—his face was filling out, his shoulders starting to widen. Snart, the lucky shit, was probably going to be one of the few people that puberty was kind to.

Mick looked away, suddenly unaccountably furious. No one should be looking at Snart like that— _no one_. “You tell me,” he growled, glaring out at the field. “They come near you, you tell me.”

“I can handle myself,” Snart snapped, all teeth. Mick looked down at the ground and smiled despite himself.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. His throat hurt again. It had to be the heat building up. “But you don’t have to.”

~

Mick didn’t talk to Snart every day; hell, he didn’t _see_ Snart every day. They weren’t friends.

But if prodded—if anyone would be fool enough to needle him, that is—he’d be able to rattle off a loose schedule of Snart’s day. School hours, outside time, whatever meal group he’d been assigned this week. It wasn’t like he was keeping track of the kid, though. He just knew that it was good, is all. To be observant, that is.

Nothing wrong with being observant.

~

The bruises on Snart’s face were… infuriating.

“Who did it,” Mick demanded, grabbing hold of Snart’s chin. Steam blossomed up between them and Snart jerked back, shocked. Mick never touched him, had never. Not even once.

“Fuck off,” he snapped, his eyes wide and manic. “You don’t own me, Rory. Don’t _touch_ me.” And he ripped himself away, staggering back several steps.  

“No, but—” Mick said, his fists clenching with the effort of not following. How _dare_ they, how _could_ they, Snart was just a kid, more innocent than everyone else in here, it wasn’t—wasn’t _right_.

Mick grunted as he lost hold of the fire in his anger; the cuffs bit into his skin, both wrists this time. The pain exploded up his arms, and the last thing he saw before he blacked out was Snart’s horrified face.

~

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Snart told him later, after Mick’d spent three days miserable and aching in the SHU. Mick had bags under his eyes and probably needed to shave, but Snart had stopped him in the center of the dirt patch, the hand he placed carefully over Mick’s prison jumpsuit steaming slightly where heat met ice.

“I want to,” Mick told him, eyes fixed down for far too long on where Snart was touching him. It seemed like an eternity before he could look up into Snart’s face. “But I don’t know why.”

A small smirk crept onto Snart’s lips. “Opposites attract, I suppose,” he said. Drawled, really, and there was something annoyingly knowing in the spark of his eye. The leftover bruises on his jaw were purple, edged in yellow.

Mick wanted to press into them, make Snart gasp.  

He looked down at the ground, his heart pounding. Dumbass kid, screwing…everything. Just, screwing everything up. “Somthin’ like that,” he rumbled, and changed the subject. “Lemme get clean, and then let’s go play pool.”

“Sure, Mick,” Snart agreed easily, dropping his hand. The steam they made together drifted away into the sky. “Sure.”

~

“I’m gonna teach you how to win at poker,” Snart announced, and then promptly appropriated all of Mick’s commissary for the month.

“How do you not know how to pick a lock?” Snart laughed, and Mick didn’t even bristle, just took the picks from him, their fingers brushing.

“She’s so amazing,” Snart told him, wonderingly, and even though Mick didn’t understand the appeal of babies, he smiled and made appropriate noises at the picture of Snart’s little sister.

“He’s awful,” Snart whispered after a shouted fight with his father during visitation that left Snart trembling and hiding in the shadow of the sagging bleachers, ice forming like diamonds in the corners of his eyes.

“This movie is entirely unrealistic,” Snart complained, unimpressed by Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin’s Las Vegas heist. “They’d be caught in seconds. I could do it better.” Mick shushed him and tried not to smile fondly.

“You’ll write to me when you get out?” Snart asked.

“Of course,” Mick said.

~

Mick was in the let-off room the next time they came for Snart, because no one was stupid enough to do it when Mick was readily available.

The let-off room had an official title, something about letting the supers incarcerated here bleed off their excess energy that the cuffs suppressed, but Mick could never remember it. It wasn’t like it was a nice place, the let-off room: fire-, water-, earth-, vapor-, metal-, weather-, everything-proof, it was a grey box buried on the far outskirts of the prison, a lifeless null space where everyone penned up here could just let go.

Mick was allocated one trip every two weeks. One hour free of the damned metal shackles.

Fire was dripping like liquid from the ceiling in half-molten rivulets when Mick heard the minor commotion from outside, the quick static of several voices on the guards’ walkies. After a moment considering the noise, he ignored it in favor of letting the heat crackle against his skin, turn it pink and shiny and tight like it was something new every time—he was scarred heavily, but while his burns never looked all that pretty, they also rarely hurt. It only got bad when he tried to hold things back. Randomness of superpowers, he supposed.

Someone pounded on the door.

“Fuck off,” Mick growled, fire rolling in waves like something living and sinuous down his arms. He closed his eyes to better let the heat seep in. “I got at least another half hour.”

“That kid you’re friends with,” the guard said, secure behind two feet of reinforced power-suppressant wall. He sounded nervous. “He’s in the infirmary. Someone… uh…”

Mick didn’t need to hear more; the fire grew teeth, and scales, and spines. It roared.

“Let me out,” Mick said. The door sagged on its hinges, half melted and drooping despite its supposed impenetrableness. “Or I’ll get out myself.”

~

“Len,” Mick said, getting the shape of Snart’s name on his tongue, trying it out. He spoke as soft as he could—which wasn’t very—soft as gravel underfoot. He touched Snart’s hand where it was lying limply on the crisp white infirmary sheets. Steam drifted up between them, lava meeting glaciers.

“Don’t push it, Rory,” warned a doctor, doing nothing more than raising an eyebrow when Mick shot her a venomous look. “Don’t give me that,” she said. “You’re running almost two hundred degrees. You’re lucky you didn’t burn him.”

Mick couldn’t burn him; they cancelled each other out.

On the sheets, Snart’s hand turned over, pressing them palm to palm. “Warm,” Snart murmured, turning his bruised face slightly Mick’s direction before falling back asleep. For the first time since he could remember, Mick’s hand felt cool.

 ~

Mick didn’t burn them—the boys that were so easy to find with their frostbitten fists and faces—because much as he wanted to, that would be stupid and would mean he’d be sitting in the SHU with years added on, instead of in the infirmary at Len’s unconscious side.

Didn’t mean he didn’t make them suffer.

‘Sides, he was too angry, and his fire was burning too hot. They didn’t deserve anything as quick as that.

~

“Well I’m not going to _thank_ you,” Len said, crossing his arms defiantly before wincing and dropping them back down to the sheet. “Why did you even care?”

Mick glowered at him. “’Cause I’m your friend, Lenny,” he growled. “An’ so I made ‘em hurt for you.”

Len stared at him, his thunderclouds clearing. “My…” he said, clearly thrown, though by what, Mick wasn’t sure. Len blinked heavily, still doped up. “You’re an odd one, Mick Rory,” he mumbled finally. He glanced down the ward, eyeing the doctor hovering at the far end, and lowered his voice. “They’re gone, though?”

Mick nodded. “For good.” He reached out and hovered his hand over Len’s crossed arms before reconsidering and pulling away. “I know you said you could handle yourself…”

Len looked down at the blanket covering his legs and picked at a loose thread. “Well. I clearly couldn’t.”

Mick frowned. The solution to this was obvious, at least to him. “I’m good bein’ your muscle, Lenny. You’re the brains, here, anyway.” Len stared at him long enough that Mick shifted uncomfortably in the hard hospital chair. “What?”

“You’re more than muscle,” Len said finally. “You’re smarter than you think you are, Mick.”

Whatever. Mick shrugged. “As long ‘s I get to burn somethin’ I’m happy. And we work well together. Play to each others’ strengths.”

Snart sighed, but then apparently exhausted by this conversation, yawned and leaned back against his pillows. “Fine,” he said, though what he had to be resigned about, Mick wasn’t sure. Len shifted a little on the bed, abruptly wincing when he hit a bruise, and Mick reached out rattlesnake-quick and tugged them into a better place, his face set. When he leaned back, he found that Snart was smiling faintly at him. “Thanks, partner,” Snart murmured, and he almost sounded sincere, the little shit.

Mick sniffed and frowned. Partner. Ridiculous.

~

Another day, another visit to the infirmary on Mick’s free time and—

Len’s bed was empty.

“Where is he,” he demanded of the eyebrow-raising doctor, his eyes wide. Len had seemed fine yesterday—not that he could stand on his own yet, but he’d been getting there—and there was no reason he’d be anywhere other than in. that. bed. “Where?!”

The annoyed look on the doctor’s face flashed into something closer to pity, which—no—but then smoothed out. “He was released,” she said. “Now you need to let go of my wrists, Mick. You’re gonna burn me.”

Mick dropped his grip; he hadn’t even realized he’d grabbed her. He swallowed and ran his hand over his close-cropped buzzcut. “Whaddya mean, released?”

“The DA got wind of what happened to him, poor kid,” she said easily, rotating her wrists. There were faint red marks imposed over her dark skin, but she didn’t seem too upset. “And good on them, they dropped the charges, petitioned for an early release. His dad picked him up this morning.” Something sad filtered into her expression. “Not that it makes it better, what those boys did to him.”

“No,” Mick rumbled, looking now at the bed Len’d inhabited for the past week. “No, it doesn’t make it better.”

The silence drew out while doctor eyed him. “What’s your work duty, Rory?” she asked suddenly.

“Sanitation,” he grumbled, barely listening.

Len’s gone. He’s gone and he didn’t even get to say goodbye. He doesn’t even know where Len lives, doesn’t have an address. Central City’s a big fukkin place. He’s got no way to find him. Not anything realistic, at least.

“And how much longer you got?”

That’s enough to finally get Mick’s attention. “What?” he asked, looking at her.

The doctor snapped her fingers. “Of your sentence. Keep up, kid, don’t make me rethink this.” There was a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth though, so Mick tilted his chin up and scowled.

“Six more months if I behave. They want me out before I turn seventeen.”

That eyebrow of doom makes an appearance. “You gonna behave now that he’s gone?”

Mick considered his options. With Len gone, there’s very little to keep him away from the edge of boredom, but it’s just a few more months. He could probably do it. “Sure,” he said slowly. “I mean, prob’ly. If people stay out of my way, then…” he trailed off pointedly. No use in beating around the bush. He was a very specific type of person.

She didn’t look overly impressed, but people rarely did when it came to Mick.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t burn the other children in this facility alive,” she said sharply. 

Mick shrugged. “Ain’t gonna.” The cuffs saw to that, but he had other ways.

She stared at him for a moment longer, chewing on her lip. “Fine,” she decided. “How about you put some of that energy to use? Help me out here in the infirmary? If you’re good, I’ll teach you some first aid.”

It was an admittedly odd request; Mick wouldn’t have pegged himself as someone great for that whole ‘caring’ shtick, and he certainly didn’t have a great bedside manner. Not that this doctor did, particularly, either. “…Why?” he asked after a moment, when it became clear that she was serious. Because seriously, there had to be better options for a pet project than a sociopath who’d burned his family in their sleep.

She shrugged. “You were good with Leonard. You helped one scared kid, Mick. I know you can do it again.”

Mick grunted and didn’t point out that it’d been _Len_ here in this hospital bed, not some random stranger. But… infirmary work was probably better than sanitation. “Sure,” he said. “Why th’ hell not?”

~

Two weeks later, Mick got a blank picture postcard of the Metropolis Museum of Art—or, well, blank except for the intricate drawing of a snowflake where the message was supposed to go. There was no return address, but it was postmarked from Central City.

Mick smiled and tucked it carefully under his pillow.

~

“Good,” the doctor—Sara, Mick had finally bothered to learn—said, critically holding up the orange Mick had presented her with—his latest effort. It was split along its circumference by a neat row of stitches, one smooth line of evenly-spaced black thread. “Much better this time, Mick.”

Mick let out a breath and frowned. Her approval wasn’t what he was looking for, here. “It’s a useful skill,” he said with a drawl that would have made Len proud. “For th’ great orange massacre of 2015.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she said cheerfully. “And just hope you won’t have to stitch up someone you love. People scream; oranges don’t.”

She had a point, but—“I don’t love anyone,” Mick said churlishly. Sara paused her orange-based examination, smiled sadly, and shook her head.

“That reminds me, the mail came while you were cleaning bedpans,” she told him, and then produced a shiny new postcard from her pocket, the sadist. Mick snatched it up with far too much enthusiasm, but Sara just snorted and left him to it.

There’d been one postcard a month for the last six months, all blank except for varying cold-themed sketches (penguins, a snowman, icicles). But this one—Mick’s breath caught when he turned it over, away from a glossy picture of the Louvre. ‘Downtown Diner, Central City’ it said, blue ink scratching the message out in neat, cramped handwriting.  ‘6pm. I remember your release date.’

“Yes,” Mick said. “Fuck yeah, Lenny.”

“Good news?” Sara asked, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” Mick said, smiling happily down at the postcard. “Great news.”

~

There’s no one waiting to pick Mick up at the gates outside Jump City, but he hadn’t been expecting that, not really. The only person who knew he was in here—and cared—was Len (and maybe Mick’s social worker/parole officer, but the guy was overworked and Mick hadn’t seen him in over a year) and since Len wasn’t even sixteen yet, the possibility of him meeting Mick at the gates had been nonexistent.

But Mick had a bus ticket to wherever he wanted—provided he stay in-state—and since the only place he wanted to go was Central City, that wasn’t an issue. He’d roll up in the early afternoon, even. Leave him plenty of time to find the supposed Downtown Diner, and then?

And then Len.

~

It was 7:15, and Len still wasn’t here. Mick frowned down into his coffee cup, avoiding the waitress’ judging eye, and shifted again in his seat. Glanced at his watch. 7:16.

“You gonna order somethin, hun?” the waitress asked, ambling over and snapping her gum. “Coz otherwise…” and she trailed off, looking apologetic.

Mick sighed. His throat hurt a little, heat and disappointment. He shouldn’t’a… got his hopes up, he guessed. “No,” he said, shuffling out his wallet and glancing through the contents. Twenty bucks and a number for a halfway house that he’d hoped he wouldn’t have needed, but—

He handed the waitress the twenty and she smiled kindly at him. “I’ll get you some change, sugar,” she said, and sauntered off, her hips swaying. Five minutes later and three dollars lighter, Mick pushed himself slowly to his feet. He wasn’t sure what to do next.

Burning something down sounded great—cathartic—but probably wasn’t the best plan.

A motorcycle roared up outside, its engine dying with a sputter. Mick glanced out the grimy window at its rider, blinking twice when he saw just how small and skinny the kid struggling with the bike was, yanking the helmet off like it’d personally offended him, jacket falling open to reveal a stained white t-shirt. Mick’s breath caught, and a second later, the door to the diner slammed open and—

And then there was Len, wild-eyed, his lip bloodied, ice frosting his knuckles. Mick stood up, knocking his knee on the underside of the table. He winced and steadied himself, unconsciously leaving a burned handprint in the cheap Formica top.

“He wouldn’t let me come,” Len said, looking around the diner and its few shocked occupants, absently wiping the blood away from his lip. “Mick, I’m sorry, I wanted to be here.”

Mick didn’t care. He took a step forward, another, and then he was wrapping Lenny up, hugging him tightly. Steam blossomed up between them, and Len relaxed in his arms.

~

“Well we can’t go back to my house,” Len said thoughtfully. He was stretched out on a sagging couch in the back room of an abandoned warehouse. The building smelled like gasoline and mold, but Mick didn’t particularly mind. Len was here.

“We can stay here,” Mick suggested, stroking his hand down the tank of the motorcycle—nicked, apparently, from Len’s jackass of a father. “We’ll be fine if we stick together.”

“Yeah,” Len agreed absently. “But let’s find someplace nicer. I’ve been thinking: you remember watching Ocean’s 11?”

“Sure,” Mick said. Len nodded, utterly serious.

“Let’s do that.”

 ~

**Author's Note:**

> So... 1) the extent of my knowledge of the DC universe is composed entirely of what I watch on the CW and what I've gleaned from Wikipedia, so please don't judge too harshly. 2) I have no clue how juvie works, and this fic is far too short to do meaningful research. 3) Yes, Doc Sara is a Prison Break reference. 4) This was meant to have a 'five-years-later' sorta epilogue, but... it doesn't. I wanted to keep them teenagers for this one, sorta innocent--at least for a measure of innocence. I might write a follow up, though. I love these two with superpowers.


End file.
